


Books, Buttons, and Aphrodisiacs

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - College/University, Aphrodisiacs, Books, Bookstore owner Sherlock, Falling In Love, Faux Academics, Floor Sex, Honey, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Office Blow Jobs, Professor John, Prompt Fill, Purple Shirt of Sex, Straining Buttons, Sweet/Hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3631479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor John Watson falls asleep late one night in a bookstore and is rudely awakened by the arrogant (and attractive) owner. There’s an undeniable mutual interest, however, and things quickly escalate.</p><p>(Written for the 221B Fanfic Challenge: From a given list, pick a prompt, an opening line to start the fic, and an ending line to finish it.<br/>Prompt: I accidentally fell asleep in the bookstore you work in cause I read so much.<br/>First line: "What the hell do you think you’re doing?"<br/>Last line: "I want to try this thing I read in a book.”)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Button

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

John woke with a start, the sound of a deep voice resonating in his head. He felt dizzy, his face hot where he had been slumped over the table fast asleep on top of a book. John pinched the bridge of his nose, scrunching his eyes.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, getting his bearings. Ah yes, the book shop. He focused on where the voice had come from, looking up and into a pair of startling blue eyes that glared accusingly at him.

“We closed up half an hour ago. What are you doing back here?”

John remained silent, taking in the sight of the tall, lanky man with dark hair and razor-sharp cheekbones. The sleeves of his expensive-looking shirt were rolled up, the simple watch on his wrist seeming to glint with a steely reprimand.

“Sorry, it was so quiet...” John said again, completely discombobulated. “What time is it?”

“11:00, since you can’t be bothered to consult your own watch.”

“Oh, God, I didn’t realize it was that late.” John fumbled with his belongings on the table, stuffing papers and pens into his leather satchel.

“Are you planning to buy that book or do a half-arsed job of stealing it?” the man asked scathingly.

“Oh, shit -- sorry,” John pulled the book, a 19th-century medical text, from his bag. “I was just looking something up. I didn’t mean to -- it’s been a really long day.” He staggered to his feet and held out the book. The man sighed, looking torn between boredom and disdain as he took the book back.

“Are you quite ready?” the man inquired with fake politeness, gesturing toward the front of the store and the door.

“Hang on,” John answered tersely, awake enough now to be irritated by the man’s attitude. “Afraid you’ll be sacked if the owner finds out you almost left a customer here overnight?” John needled, pulling on his jacket and hitching the satchel strap over his shoulder.

The man frowned, unamused. “I _am_ the owner.” He turned and strode ahead, unlocked the door, waited for John to leave.

“Thanks,” John muttered sarcastically as he passed by, cross at being escorted out so unceremoniously.

“We open at 9:00 tomorrow if you’re desperate to look something up again,” the man said curtly, closing the door and pulling down the shade with a vicious finality.

John stared at the door, saw the lights flick off, the shop going dark. He stood in the chilly night air, his mouth slightly agape. That man -- that rude prick in the bookstore -- was the most gorgeous human being he’d ever seen.

 

***********

It was 9:00 the next night when John worked up the courage to return to the bookstore. Much to his chagrin, he realized he did need the book he’d fallen asleep on the night before.

He stood outside the shop, his hand gripping the strap of his bag. He half hoped the man would be there, and half hoped he wouldn’t. John had been to the store a number of times before -- it was cozy, quiet, full of used and rare books that were carefully curated, which he admired -- but he’d never seen the owner until last night.

Well, chances were that he wasn’t going to be there, right? John took a breath and pulled open the door, a small bell chiming. Wrong. The man looked up from behind the counter, his eyes piercing right into John’s.

“Ah,” said the man.

“Oh,” said John. He cleared his throat. “I’ve come for that book, after all.”

The man reached beneath the counter and produced the book in one fluid motion. “I thought as much, Professor Watson. It is quite a nice volume.”

John eyed him distrustfully, not sure how he knew his name.

The man smiled, looking pleased with himself. “I looked you up online last night. It wasn’t difficult to surmise you’re a professor, the university being quite nearby and you with your leather satchel and copious notes. Although the Tag Heuer watch threw me off. Bit of a splurge on a teacher’s salary…”

“I got it in an Afghan market, if you must know,” John answered snippily. “It’s just a cheap knockoff.”

“Afghanistan...” The man raised one eyebrow, a trace of respect crossing his face as he rang up the book. “I do a bit of traveling myself. Searching out rare editions and all that.” He took the cash John handed him, gave him change and the book. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“I just started at the beginning of the term,” John replied, slipping the book into his bag.

“You teach the history of medicine... interesting subject. Well, good luck with that.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just mean, good luck trying to pound information into those idiot students. I used to be something of an academic myself. Hated teaching, though.”

“Is that so?” John asked, growing intrigued.

“Never finished my doctorate. Kept getting reprimanded for being ‘verbally aggressive’ toward the students. God forbid you try to offer a healthy critique these days.”

John’s mouth crooked into a smile. “No, I don’t imagine students would take well to your style of critique. What subject?”

“Chemistry.”

“And how do you go from graduate chemistry to owning a bookstore?”

“I’m versatile,” the man answered vaguely. “As was my Uncle Rudy, who used to own this store.” He steered the conversation back toward books. "Do you do much collecting?”

“I pick up a few things now and then, when I can afford it.”

“Perhaps I can help you.” In another swift motion the man flicked out a business card held between two long fingers. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes, in case you’re looking for something special.”

Surprised, John slowly slipped the card from his fingers, his eyes taking in the unusual name, then rising up to the strangely handsome face, his pulse suddenly beating erratically. “I’ll certainly keep that in mind.”

 

***********

Sherlock followed John with his eyes as he left the store. He seemed an unassuming man at first glance, yet there was something about him… something you didn’t want to underestimate. Something in the way he held himself, grounded, but ready to snap if pushed too far. And those expressions that flitted across his face, revealing a thousand words in milliseconds... fascinating. Sherlock tapped a finger against his lips, thinking. There was more there than met the eye.

His curiosity got the better of him, and he found himself slipping into the shadowy back row of a lecture hall the next afternoon, strategically slumping down in a seat behind a particularly tall young man.

Professor Watson entered the hall, took his place behind the podium, spent a few moments calling something up on his laptop, and dimmed the lights. He looked up, pausing dramatically as an image appeared on the large screen at the front of the room. An ancient urn decorated with ripe, bursting fruits and -- Sherlock peered closer -- profiles of young men with exceedingly erect penises.

Giggles scattered throughout the room. John just smiled. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Since ancient times, foods have been assigned healing properties, used as medicine and in rituals, and sometimes, believed to be aphrodisiacs. The root of that word is, of course, Aphrodite, the goddess of love.”

Sherlock sat up a little straighter, his full attention on the professor as he spoke. On the screen, luscious images of erotic art were interspersed with pomegranates, strawberries, oysters, asparagus, beets, avocados, honey, figs, wine… By the time the lecture was over, the entire room was thick with a sultry aura of horniness and hunger.

The students sat stunned in the dim light for a few moments as John reminded them of their reading assignments, and Sherlock roused himself to slip unnoticed out of the room. He ducked into a side hallway, ran a hand through his hair, uncharacteristically flustered.

 

***********

John unlocked the door to his office, still feeling a bit smug, enjoying having thrown the entire class for a loop. Always good to shake things up around mid-term to keep their attention.

He stood sorting a few papers on his desk, his back to the door, when he noticed a shadow slant across the floor. He turned, expecting to see a student, his mouth falling open when instead he realized it was the man from the bookstore.

“Mr. Holmes,” he finally said. “I’m… surprised to see you here.”

Sherlock stood in the doorway, glancing around the small office, taking in the books, botanical prints, and anatomy wood cuts. “I happened to drop in on your lecture today. A most… stimulating topic.”

“Yes, well, the students remember it better than the history of biomedical ethics.”

Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, his long, heavy coat folded over his arm. “Could I ask you a few follow-up questions, in private?” His hand curved around the doorknob, waiting.

John looked at him more closely, an involuntary warmth fanning across his chest. “Certainly.”

Sherlock closed the door, turned the lock, but didn’t move. “All myths, then, food as aphrodisiacs?”

“Well, as I said, there are certain properties -- mild stimulants or nutrients -- tryptophan and the like -- that elicit a sense of well-being, alcohol that lowers inhibitions… and of course the obvious resemblance of some foods to the more erotic body parts… and colors that excite the nervous system.” Purple. John stared at the purple shirt fitted over Sherlock's torso like a second skin.

“The power of suggestion,” Sherlock pushed himself away from the door, took several steps nearer.

“Yes, the power of suggestion can certainly… certainly be strong.” John licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He couldn’t take his eyes off the shirt with the straining buttons that was now within arm’s reach. “Mr. Holmes…” he began, intending to finish the sentence, but faltering.

“Please, call me Sherlock.” He casually draped his coat over the back of a chair.

John tore his gaze away from the top button of the shirt that was begging to be released, stretched taut across that slim, muscular chest. “Sherlock. What is it that I can do for you?” John’s voice came out much hoarser than he expected.

Sherlock moved in closer still, shattering any pretense of respectable social distance, his eyes boring into John’s, answering a question with a question. “Why did you come back to the store yesterday?”

John felt pinned in place, the air in his lungs thin. “I came for the book.”

“Is that all?" Sherlock moved fractionally closer, their thighs nearly brushing, causing John’s cock to twitch, a response to the body heat and chemistry flaring up between them.

“Why are _you_ here?” John countered.

“I came for the lecture.”

John met his gaze full on. “Is that all?”

Sherlock’s mouth curved into a slight smile. “Well, then, here we are.” In a flash, his expression turned more serious. “I never do this… I don’t pursue people. But you…” he paused, his glance falling to John’s mouth, “have aroused my curiosity, Professor Watson, as I have yours. Almost like an aphrodisiac…”

Sherlock’s baritone voice was like rough silk dragging against John’s skin. John swallowed, not quite believing he was boxed against his desk by this near stranger, the sexual tension filling the small room like a vapor, common sense and caution melting away. _I could end this now with a word,_ John thought. But he didn’t want to.

Instead, he gave in to a base impulse. John watched as his own left hand reached out to touch the deep purple shirt, then laid flat against Sherlock’s chest, the tip of his index finger slowly sliding into the tempting gap in the fabric between the straining top and second buttons. His finger kept sliding deeper into the hole, soon skimming against bare skin and coarse chest hair, stopping only when the pearlescent button caught in the web of skin between his index and middle fingers.

The string holding the button strained further as John applied incremental pressure, watching the small disc tilt in resistance against the pocket of soft flesh as he slid his fingers forward. He pressed on, waiting with perverse anticipation to see if the button would slip free through the buttonhole at the last second or spring off the shirt entirely, hit the wall with a satisfying _ping,_ and fly into a dusty corner, a dirty little secret to be swept up by an unsuspecting custodian.

John could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat beneath his palm, could hear his shallow breath as he too watched the button strain, the string pull, the fabric tighten -- _Pop. Ping._

John’s hand suddenly had full access to the warmth of Sherlock’s upper chest. His eyes moved up to Sherlock’s, sharing a moment of shock, then instant recognition. In the next second their mouths crashed together, John’s fist bunching the lapel of the purple shirt, dragging Sherlock closer. John could feel the span of Sherlock’s large hands against his back, sliding down to grasp his hips as he ground into him, the sharp edge of the desk biting into his arse.

The room was hot, their breath was hot, the tongue ravishing his mouth was hot. The heat only increased when John felt Sherlock’s fingers tugging at his belt, manipulating the buckle, working at the zipper.

_Oh, sweet Jesus._

“The door --” John gasped as Sherlock dropped to his knees and wrestled down John’s pants and trousers.

“It’s locked, remember?” Sherlock growled impatiently.

_Oh God, this was risky, this was insane, this was -- unff._

Those lips, those full, lush lips were wrapped around his cock, that scathing tongue was now pressed flat against the underside of his shaft, that arrogant mouth consuming him, those elegant fingers stroking, tongue rolling, fluttering, mouth slick-sucking --

John gripped the edge of the desk, forgetting the precariousness of the situation, his hips tilting forward as Sherlock took him deep, sliding down, smoothing back up, circling the head with wet lips, locking gazes with him.

John leaned back against the desk, one hand tangling loosely into Sherlock’s dark curls. He could hear himself panting, John realized, groaning breathless little encouragements as he stared down at Sherlock. _“That’s it… Like that... God, that feels so good…”_ His other hand shifted back blindly on the desktop for balance, scattering a stack of papers he had yet to grade onto the floor.

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered in the little room except for lips and tongue and saliva and fingers working his hard cock, making him bite his lip and close his eyes in an agonized effort not to moan too loudly as he skirted on the edge of coming.

“Oh, fuck --” John didn’t finish that sentence either, apart from a muffled cry as he came, pulsing into the heat of Sherlock’s mouth, his hand now gracelessly knocking over a container of pens that rolled across the desk and clattered onto the floor.

When John opened his eyes again, Sherlock was sitting back on his heels, wiping his mouth, a satisfied smile on his face. After a moment, John tucked himself back into his clothes, sat back on the desk, his legs weak. “That was… unexpected.”

“I was going to suggest ‘enjoyable,’” Sherlock offered, standing up and brushing off the knees of his trousers.

“That too, most assuredly.” John reached out and pulled Sherlock in by the waist so that he stood between his thighs. “Give me a few minutes to catch my breath, and I’ll return the favor,” John murmured, his palms curving over Sherlock’s arse.

Before Sherlock could answer, there was a knock on the office door.

John froze. The mess of papers, their disheveled clothing, the scent of sex in the air -- there was no way he could open that door.

They waited in silence through several more knocks, then watched as a sheaf of papers was finally shoved under the door and footsteps faded away.

“Late assignment?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course,” John sighed, the moment broken.

Sherlock glanced at his watch, then swore. “Damn. I have to go. I’m off to Vienna tonight. Haven’t even packed yet. Now where’s that bloody button?” He started looking around on the floor.

“What? But what about -- ” John gestured in the vicinity of their lower halves.

Sherlock smiled. “Oh, I expect full satisfaction when I’m back. Ah!” He reached down to retrieve the button, closed it in one fist. He loomed over John, then leaned down to deliver a hard kiss, his palm gripping the nape of John’s neck. “Come to the shop Friday night at 11:00. Use the back door. Go up the stairs to my flat.” He paused, then added, “That is, if you’re feeling adventurous.”

John hesitated, taking in the raised eyebrow, the challenging glint in Sherlock’s eye. He looked like trouble, the kind he hadn't seen since Afghanistan. _Maybe I need more trouble in my life,_ John thought.

“You’ll come?” Sherlock prodded, straightening the lapels on his now wrinkled purple shirt.

“Yes, and you will, too. Twice, if I have my way,” John replied, sliding his curious fingers to Sherlock’s groin, his lips to his mouth.

Sherlock delayed his departure for another few tantalizing moments, then reluctantly broke away, breathing deeply. "Until Friday, then," he said with some effort, pulling on his coat. “Don't be late. And bring some honey. I want to try this thing I read in a book.”


	2. Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bonus chapter that was not going to leave me alone until I wrote it... Hope you enjoy it. : )

At 11:02 on Saturday night there was a soft rapping of knuckles on wood. Sherlock pulled open the door to his flat more quickly than he intended to, undermining the nonchalance he meant to convey. He gazed at John, who stood holding a shopping bag in one hand.

“Come in,” Sherlock finally moved aside, letting John in. He watched John glance around at the overflowing bookshelves, the desk littered with papers, the mix of antique and modern furniture, the lit fireplace casting a welcome heat into the room.

John nodded in approval. “Nice place. Much homier than my empty flat.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, his attention focused on the damp hair at the back of John’s neck, a crisp scent of soap and lather wafting across to him. So John had showered and shaved not long ago, too.

Sherlock unconsciously touched the damp curls at the nape of his own neck, distracted by an image of John’s wet body flashing through his mind. He realized he ought to say something. “I’ll take that.” He held out his hand for the bag.

John handed it to him. “Thought I’d bring a bottle of wine… to go along with the…”

“Honey?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock wrapped a hand around the cool glass of the wine bottle and drew it out to read the label. “Good choice.” He left the other item in the bag, turned to go to the kitchen. “Make yourself at home,” he added, reaching up to a high shelf to pull out two wine glasses.

John shrugged off his jacket, hung it on a peg behind the door. He heard the satisfying pop of a cork as he walked around slowly, peering at old prints, maps of London, a bronze figure of a dog on the mantle, a violin laid casually on the desk. He took the glass Sherlock offered him.

“To rare books,” Sherlock suggested.

“And aphrodisiacs,” John added slyly. They clinked glasses, then watched the red liquid slip past each other’s lips.

“Good trip?” John asked, their gazes still locked.

“Very good. I acquired several nice editions for a client and for the shop.”

They remained standing, neither moving.

“Grading done?” Sherlock asked.

“For the weekend, yes.”

Sherlock’s fingers tapped against his glass. “I hate small talk.”

John smiled over the rim of his glass. “I gathered that. You’re not a patient man.”

“I’m really not.” Sherlock set down his glass, took a step closer to John. He’d been unable to stop thinking about that day in John’s office, his mind constantly roaming back to the finger sliding beneath his button and the impulsive frenzy that followed. “I wondered if you’d actually show up tonight.”

John met his gaze evenly, placed his glass aside. “Why wouldn’t I?”

They hovered in each other’s orbit for several long seconds, until Sherlock swiftly leaned down and hungrily covered John’s mouth with his own. John’s fingers dug into Sherlock’s back, his mouth opening eagerly in response.

John had meant take things slowly. He’d gone over it in his head a thousand times, reasoning that it’d be foolish to rush into another intimate encounter with a man he’d known for only a handful of minutes. He’d made mistakes before, ones he wasn’t particularly keen to repeat.

John inhaled sharply as Sherlock’s lips grazed under his ear, fingers playing along his jawline. But then, John reassessed, he never really did learn from his mistakes, did he? He’d always had a reckless streak, a disregard for danger that had ended in fractured bones, wrecked cars, close calls, and broken hearts, but hell, it was fun until the pain set in. John pulled back slightly.

“Sit,” John whispered roughly, propelling Sherlock back into a leather chair, his fingers flying down to the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, making short work of the fastenings as he lowered himself between Sherlock’s legs, one knee briefly propped on the edge of the chair as he leaned into Sherlock, kissing him hard before sinking to the floor on both knees.

It was quick, John’s hand wending under fabric and drawing out Sherlock’s cock, his mouth encircling it, tongue stretching down its length, then up, pulling off, sliding down again. Sherlock gripped the arms of the chair, his neck bending back, then gradually tilting forward again to watch the sandy hair bobbing up and down, then slow, slow sucking, fingers stroking down -- he let out a deep groan and John’s eyes flicked up, and he grinned before doing the same series of motions again.

Sherlock took in the rather shocking contrast of pinkish cock and lips and fingers against the black fabric of his trousers, and damn if his shirttails weren’t still tucked in, they were in such a hurry -- and -- _oh, God_ \-- his knees spread a little further and he slid forward into John’s mouth, _that, that, that,_ his breath a drawn-in hiss and then a suspended moment, that perfect precipice of white nothingness before the blinding surge, and he wished he could see John's face as his cum spurted down his throat but his eyes were closed too tightly and _oh, Christ, that was good._

Sherlock sighed, his head resting limp against the back of the chair, his muscles loose. John sat on the floor, leaning back on his arms, a little breathless. They exchanged a look, smiling a little, marveling at the insatiable escalation they had tumbled into, wondering what lay around the next bend.

John finally got to his feet as Sherlock zipped up and smoothed his clothes. He took the refilled wine glass John held out to him.

“So much for patience,” John said, sitting down in the opposite chair, stretching out his legs. “Next time we’ll take it slow.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I did say you'd come twice,” John reminded him.

Sherlock had to grin. “If you insist, Professor.”

John smiled back, gestured toward the violin. “Do you play?”

“Now and then. Helps me think.”

John nodded, looking around the flat again, taking in the eclectic mix of old and new things. “How long have you lived here?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Seven, eight years. Moved here when I took over the shop after Uncle Rudy died. This was his flat.” His eyes fell to John’s watch. His turn to ask questions. “Why were you in Afghanistan?”

“For work. I was researching traditional medicine practices.”

"Interesting." Sherlock waited a beat. “But that watch is not a cheap knockoff. That’s the real thing.”

John’s shoulders stiffened. He glanced down at the watch on his wrist, touched the face briefly with the tip of his index finger. “It was a gift,” he finally said without looking up. “From an old friend.”

“Lover.” Sherlock replaced the last word on a hunch, and John looked up sharply. So he was right. He really shouldn’t pry further. However -- “Who was it?”

John glanced away. “Someone I used to work with… We were in Afghanistan together.”

Sherlock thought back to John’s CV that he’d read online, remembering the list of published articles and a co-author’s name that had appeared numerous times. What was it, S something… He spoke the name out loud before thinking. “Sholto. J. Sholto.”

John stared at him. “How could you possibly know that?”

Sherlock toyed with his glass. “Sorry. I saw the name listed on your publications. I have something of a photographic memory… and a distinct lack of tact, I’ve been told.”

John shifted in his chair, took another swallow of wine.

“So, J stands for--?” Sherlock pressed.

“James,” John sighed, knowing Sherlock could just Google it anyway. “I haven't seen him in over two years. And while we’re at it, you might as well know I was once briefly engaged to a woman, but I broke it off after I found out she was still fucking her ex-boyfriend.”

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together, processing this additional information.

“Seems like you’d just find that out, too,” John muttered. He reached for the bottle of wine and filled his glass again. “So I’m not exactly… great at relationships, apparently.”

“Well… at least you have a nice watch to show for it.”

John nearly choked on his wine, half appalled and half amused at Sherlock’s comment. Clearly he wouldn’t be offering any maudlin sympathy, which was something of a relief. John swirled the wine in his glass. “No tales of heartbreak from you?”

“Nothing worthy of timepieces or rings, no.” _Nothing even close,_ Sherlock thought. He didn’t want to go any further down that road, so he was about the change the subject when there was a soft knock at the door.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, then stood up, carefully straightening his jacket before opening the door. “Molly,” he said with some surprise.

“Hi, um, sorry, I know it’s late, but I have that book I’ve been working on, and wanted to drop it off -- oh, you have company.”

John stood up, lingering in the background, trying to figure out who the pretty woman with dark hair and big brown eyes might be.

Sherlock sighed internally. “Molly, this is Professor John Watson. John, this is Miss Molly Hooper, one of London’s finest book conservationists.”

“Hello,” Molly lifted a hand wrapped in a mitten knitted in at least five different colors. “Conservationist sounds so stuffy. I really just bring books back from the dead. Well, you know what I mean.” She turned back to Sherlock. “I finished restoring that book for Mr. Anderson. I know how difficult he can be, so I thought I should bring this tonight since I’m leaving town for a few days.” She handed Sherlock a small cardboard box.

“Come in,” he said to Molly, taking the box to a table where he lifted off the cover. He picked up the book by the edges, examining the spine and headband, gently opening the cover to look at the endpapers. “Excellent work, as usual,” he said, turning a few more pages.

John noticed how Molly seemed to glow with the praise. Sherlock set the book back in the box. “Mr. Anderson should be pleased, despite his poor taste in literature.”

Molly giggled. “Chapter 9 is the best one.”

“Oh, Molly, your eyes will burn,” Sherlock teased her. “Thank you for stopping by with this. Send me your bill, as usual.” He steered her smoothly to the door.

“Nice to meet you,” she said over her shoulder to John. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Yes, yes, safe travels,” he said, shutting the door.

John leveled a look at him. “She likes you.”

“We’re colleagues. She’s very good at what she does.”

John let it go. He wandered over to the box. “What’s the book?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Obscure early-20th-century erotica.”

John snorted. “Is it any good? Can I…?” He inclined his head toward the box.

Sherlock nodded.

John picked up the book, opened it to a random page to read out loud. “ _He stroked her silken thighs and golden breasts, sucked her ripe nipples, his hard member pushing against her sex, seeking entrance…_ Okay…” he turned to another page. “ _He bent over the handsome stranger from Brazil, thrusting his wet cock into the man’s tight hole, the velvet theatre curtain tangling around them, muffling their moans and cries._ Well…” he placed the book carefully back in the box. “A handsome stranger from Brazil.”

“Or maybe from a bookstore.” Sherlock stood behind John, his arms circling around his waist, hands skimming down, creating a welcome friction. “Let’s get that honey.”

**************

 

“Patience,” John murmured, sliding his honey-coated finger from Sherlock’s mouth. They had spread a blanket in front of the fire, turned off the lights, undressed each other in the flickering light, smoothing palms up arms and over shoulders, fingertips cradling hips, a hot mouth against the tendon of a pliant neck.

Sherlock now lay on his back, John seated beside him. John dipped his finger into the jar of honey again, letting a delicate strand pool into the hollow of Sherlock’s throat. He leaned down, lapped at the sweetness, rose up to capture Sherlock's lips with his own.

He drizzled another thin trail across Sherlock's nipples and followed it with his mouth, feeling the flesh harden under the swirl of his tongue. John shifted, straddling Sherlock's thighs, tipped the jar, the golden liquid settling into a narrow stream along the indent where his ribcage joined. John ran a finger down Sherlock's sternum through the honey, taking his time, admiring the pale skin and blue veins, the angles and planes of his body, the rise and fall of his chest.

John tipped the jar further, letting the honey spill over Sherlock's stomach. It was an excess, an extravagant gilding of an already gorgeous sight. Sherlock gasped a little at the sensation, gasped again when John pressed his body down into his to kiss him, the honey oozing between them, viscous, sticky, warm. They explored, lips roaming along necks and cheeks and jaws and ears for what seemed like hours, knuckles tugging in hair, hips rolling, smearing together.

The taste in Sherlock's mouth was achingly sweet, the press of cloying skin was maddening, the noises from their throats increasingly urgent. He felt John move, heard the rustle of plastic, a whisper near his ear.

“l did buy one other thing… if you want....”

Sherlock moved his gaze down to John’s hand: a small bottle, the most welcome word in the world leaping out at him. _Lubricant._

“I want,” Sherlock answered in a husky voice. His eyes heavy-lidded, he watched John slick his cock, the firelight dancing over his hair and throwing long shadows across his lowered lashes. John turned toward him and he drew up his knees, making space as John lowered his body again, pressing the head of his cock slowly into him, gradually filling him as their lips touched fleetingly, eyes fixed on each other, breathing in sync, fitting together beautifully. John rolled his hips smoothly, sliding the thick length of his shaft in and out of the tight heat of Sherlock's body. He thrusted deeper, circling his pelvis until Sherlock gasped in pleasure. For everything fast and rushed they'd done, this was satisfyingly, bone-meltingly slow.

Sherlock’s right palm moved up to cup the back of John’s head, feeling the bristle of his hair as his hand moved up, the smoothness as his hand moved down. He canted his hips upward, hungry to take more of John inside him. He wanted to ride John. He wanted to fuck him from behind. He wanted to bring him coffee in the morning and pin him against a wall at night. He wanted to take him to Paris and browse the book stalls and make love in a yellow-painted room far above the streets and alleyways. He wanted him in the flat with papers and books and arguments and whiskey and bare feet tangling under covers.

John pushed into him harder and Sherlock’s hands gripped his shoulders, the air in their lungs catching with each increasing impact. John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, their bodies colliding hot and sticky, a groan, a shudder, a shiver, a moan, milky cum spilling over honey-goldened skin.

**************

 

They showered together silently, hands touching waists and stroking the curves of lower backs under rivulets of warm water. They fell into bed with their hair still wet, shoulders sprinkled with water droplets, Sherlock wrapping around John as they settled deep into the sheets. Sherlock let out a sigh, a bit overwhelmed at his sudden need to anchor himself to John and how natural it felt.

“All right?” John asked sleepily.

“Fine,” Sherlock answered, his mouth on John’s shoulder.

“Quite a week,” John murmured, sliding a warm foot under Sherlock’s cold toes. _This -- the two of them -- was going to last,_ he thought with a flash of intuition. “I like it here,” he added softly, half asleep, holding on to this delicate sliver of new knowledge.

Sherlock replied by tightening his arm around John’s waist, his lips on the nape of his neck.


End file.
